This Used To Have A Title, But I've Forgotten It
by The Awkward Silence
Summary: A demigod's life. A demigod's death. A demigod's story. ::tAoCP Easter Fic Exchange 2012::For Incendiarist::


**A/N: **-pokes fic- Honestly, I really dislike what I've written. Apologies, Cindy. There are hints of an unconventional pairing, but take that whatever way you will. Overuse of exclamation marks. Failure to integrate the prompts fully into the fic.

Hmm. Let's just excuse all of that for creative lisence. ;)

* * *

**This Used To Have A Title, But I've Forgotten What It Was**

******_Written for _Incendiarist **_in The Association of Crazy People Easter Exchange: __**Don't ask us about huge green things with teeth; ****the walls are bleeding; ****The sun has risen! Let's make war!**_

* * *

_Everything's __**that **__color._

_I think it's called 'gray'._

_I think._

_Yeah. _

_Pretty sure._

_It's gray all over here. _

_Not a dash of anything else._

_I find myself wanting for another color. A specific one. Can't remember its name, but it's like the sky, or the color I once saw somewhere-_

_**Blue**__. _

_Yes, blue that I could stare at forever._

_Saw it somewhere. Somewhere to do with faces and seeing._

_Can't remember._

_I'm...standing (is that what it's called?) in a crowd of things...people. Sometimes they move about, but nobody looks like they've got anywhere else to go. Nor do I._

_There's a deathly silence. _

_That thought makes the corners of my mouth want to quirk upwards for some reason. Because...I thought something...happy? No...starts with 'f'...fann- no...funny? Yeah, funny. That's the thing that makes you want to laugh, right? _

_I don't know. Don't know if I'm right (is it left?) or wrong about 'funny'. Don't know what's so funny(?) either._

_Who am I? Why am I here? _

_I try and think. Try to find the answers. It's hard, and I keep slipping._

_But I've __**always **__been determined-_

_Wait. How did I know that?_

_...and then there's a rush of images and sounds and feelings and everything and I __**remember**__ not properly but in bits and pieces and it's strange because I've been here so long that memories are like they're __**not me **__but I know they are. _

_And I remember._

* * *

"Settle down, class!" the teacher called out as she came into the room, holding the hand of a little girl. "We have a new student today! Everybody say hi!" (Having the innate ability to say everything with exclamation marks, deciding to become a first grade teacher had not even been a _choice _for her.)

"Hello," the class said, looking at the girl curiously.

There was a pause as small eyes looked suspiciously at her fellow pupils.

As the silence extended, the teacher frowned. "Now, that's not very nice, is it?(!)" she scolded gently. "What do you say when other people say 'hello' to you?(!)"

"Hi," the girl finally muttered.

"Good girl!" The teacher knew that the girl had had troubles in her old schools, but having been gullible and hopeful enough to think that teaching was a good career, she was naive enough to think that this child would soon integrate into the class well and was just a little shy. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for someone responsible who'd help her settle in. "Jackie will be your guide for today!" she announced. "Won't you, Jackie?(!)"

"Of course," Jackie answered, making her way forward. She was a member of the class both venerated and hated by everyone else, having been given the post of 'Blackboard Monitor' by the teacher (which is, of course, a position of great importance for first graders and dwarves). She smiled sweetly, proud that she'd been picked.

But this scene of relative cheerfulness and childish innocence wasn't to last. By the end of the day, Jackie was crying. Her nose was also bleeding, courtesy of a well-aimed punch at her face.

A phone call home, accompanied by an apologetic explanation by the school followed, and the new student, now ex-student, was hurried home with her worried, though not very surprised, mother.

* * *

A girl walked down the aisle of desks to present her teacher with her finished artwork, a scene from the Trojan War. Accidentally, her hand knocked over a paint pot, covering another child's painting with bright green paint (admittedly that actually _improved _it, but that's not the point).

"Miss!" he yelled in frustration.

"Shush," she demanded. It had been an _accident_, and she was trying her hardest not to be thrown out of a school. Again. She'd already had a few warnings, and she knew that any misbehavior could potentially be the last straw.

"Miss!" he yelled again, ignoring her. It had taken him _ages and ages _to get that face (though it was probably more correct to call it a blob) right, and now someone had just come along and _messed it all up_. He demanded justice, and he was determined to get it.

"I told you to shush!" Panicking, she covered his mouth in an attempt to stop his shouts. The teacher was looking over someone else's work, and she hoped they hadn't heard.

"Mmpf! Mmpf!" he complained.

"I'm sorry, just please don't say any-"

She heard her name called, and a shadow fell over the struggling pair.

"What are you doing? _Stop _strangling him this _instant_!"

She stepped away, tried to apologize, tried to explain.

But she knew it wouldn't work.

It never did.

* * *

She sat outside the office, legs dangling off the too-high chair, waiting. In the next chair along, sat a tired-looking man, also known as her teacher.

She opened her mouth, debating whether to plead innocence again.

"Sir, it truly wasn't my fault-"

"We're not discussing this any further."

"But, please! It wasn't me this time, _honestly_! You didn't see the huge green things with tee-"

"NO!" he interrupted, too quickly and firmly to be anything but fake. "The subject's closed. You're expelled."

"But what did you see, then?"

He opened his mouth. And then closed it again.

"I...ah, here's your mother."

He never did answer her.

* * *

_Sometimes it was my fault. Got so angry that I had to hit and punch and just let all the rage out._

_Sometimes it wasn't. I'd do stuff by accident, or monsters that looked like they'd come straight out of a mythology book (and it wasn't until later that I understood why) attacked. _

_So, combining my tendency to get angry and monsters mean that, all in all, I'd never stayed in a school long before expulsion._

_Looking back, it __**had**__ been remarkably easy to make enemies. Must have been my genes._

_Making friends was another story. Or, rather, a __**lack **__of a story._

* * *

"...rhymes with poo," the boys chanted, making fun of a girl's name.

The victim of their abuse sat in the corner, reading. She was trying everything she could to block the sounds of their taunts, even if it meant trying to decipher the scribbles others called "words" in the book. It was, as far as she could tell, was about the search for a cow, which made _such _interesting reading material.

But still, it was better than listening to _them_. She hoped that ignoring the bullies would make them get bored and stop.

Unfortunately, this was fourth grade, and nothing's funnier than than anything to do with the end products of digestion in fourth grade. Their chant increased in loudness.

"Shut up," she muttered. Hands gripped the book tighter. "Ignore them," she said to herself. She'd _promised _her mom she'd last at least one month, and it had only been two weeks. "You promised."

"Hey, she's talking to herself!" the ringleader of the group exclaimed delighted, realizing that now he had more things to tease her about. People were starting to find the poo rhyme a bit repetitive, anyway. "Ooooh, I talk to myself! I'm insane!"

She looked around for the teacher, but they'd vanished. Getting some supplies for the cupboard, apparently.

The ringleader crossed his eyes and started flapping his arms madly to an appreciative audience which roared in laughter. Others joined in, and the volume of noise rose.

Hands shook. Paper ripped. She snapped.

The book dropped to the ground and she rose.

"_SHUT UP_," she screamed. "_SHUT UP_."

The ferocity and venom in her voice was so overwhelming that, for one moment afterwards, the room went silent. Her hands screwed up tightly, nails digging into her palms so deeply that they were drawing blood.

Nervous giggles from some of the onlookers.

The ringleader recovered from the shock of her reaction. The girl had never responded before. "Why should I?" he asked with a cocky smile, before launching into his 'insane' imitation again. It wasn't funny to begin with, but everyone apart from that girl still seemed to love it.

He danced around crazily, basking in the attention. And a fist rather rudely smashed into the side of his face, causing him to stagger backwards into a desk.

"Ow!"

Steadying himself and rubbing his cheek, he shook his head at his loyal minions who were coming to help. He didn't want to get upstaged by a girl, of all people. "She's mine," he snarled. It had hurt. More than expected. Didn't help his ego either.

He bunched his own hands into fists, meeting the eyes of the girl. She looked pretty well built, but he had no doubt that she'd be no match for _him_. She was just a _girl_, after all. What threw him slightly was the way her eyes looked now, cold and somehow...confident?

He shrugged away his doubts and threw a punch, intending to mirror the damages she'd done to him. Instead, his fist less-satisfyingly punched the less-appreciative empty air, where her face had been a second ago. The momentum of his swing carried him forward, causing him to stumble, before a kick to the back of his knees made him completely fall to the ground.

She hit, punched, kicked, feeling _such a rush _of euphoria, because this was _good_, this was what she was _meant _to do. Fist met flesh and also screams...she didn't who was screaming, maybe him, maybe an onlooker, didn't care. Hands grabbed her from the back, trying to stop her, but she was too far gone. Panting, she shook them off and continued her relentless assault. Heard a crack. Heard shouts. Didn't bother to check where or why.

That's when larger,_ adult _hands pulled her away, and held up the girl as she thrashed and tried to get away.

* * *

Apparently there was blood everywhere, on the walls and on the floor, a _red red red _that took several days to get out.

And even then, there were remainders, because blood _is _terribly difficult to wash out.

It was like the walls themselves had been bleeding.

* * *

"I really can't say how sorry I am. I'll pay for the damages," her mom said. "She's sorry too."

The girl gave a nod.

"I'm sorry, but we can't have behavior like this. Mike could have been _killed_, if the teacher hadn't intervened. You're expelled. That is my _final _decision."

The woman took a deep breath. Sighed. Gave up. Always did in the end. Sometime she wondered why she even bothered trying in the first place. "Well thank you for letting her come here in the first place. She's learnt a lot." It sounded like she'd said this speech a lot before.

Which, _surprise surprise_, she _had_.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I just got mad and..." Words couldn't describe how she'd felt as she'd fought. It was just a rush of _gloriousness _and it just felt_ so right_, what she was _born _to do. (She didn't know then, but this was actually more literal than she'd thought.)

"I know, honey," her mother reassured.

But her smile wobbled.

Face crumpled.

Tried to cover her tears.

"I'm sorry, it's just so hard," she mumbled.

The girl was at a loss. She'd seen her mom cry before, but never this hard, like she was never going to stop. A tentative hand (still stained red) reached out, tried to somehow comfort the woman, but she had never been good at this people thing. Probably never would be.

That's how they stayed, the girl, big for her age, but somehow looking _so _tiny and scared at the moment, hand resting on the shoulder of a woman that had been put through _too much_, sobbing her eyes out, in the small, cold kitchen of the flat they'd been living in for only two and a half weeks.

They heard the roar of a motorbike, coming closer and closer.

Then a knock on the door.

* * *

_That was the first time I met my dad. He explained about who I actually was, about Camp Half-Blood, and how I was a little young for it, but hearing the reports about what I'd done in my schools, thought that it was better if I went there now. He looked bored, I think._

_I think._

_Don't actually remember that much._

_But only because the main thing I remember is the look of surprise, a mutter of "she's __**not **__a boy?", and then an expression of such __**disappointment**__._

* * *

The car door opened, and a girl stepped out, looking around at her surroundings. Her eyes traveled along the path that reached the top of a hill. There, a pine tree stood, strong and majestic, shading the figure underneath its branches from the sun. They waved.

The girl squinted, because, unless the sunlight was playing tricks on her, the person didn't quite seemed like, well, a person. Too much of a person, in fact. A pair of legs too much of a person, if you wanted to be more specific.

"Here." Her mom handed her a suitcase. It was a large one; she wasn't going home any time soon.

"Thanks." She fidgeted a bit, unsure what to do next.

Her mom save her from doing any frantic thinking by enveloping her in a hug. Surprised, she took a step back, before recovering. Returning the favor, she wrapped her own arms around her mother.

"Write or phone, okay?" her mom said.

"Okay," she agreed, but wasn't sure whether she'd be able to do so. She'd never been the best of writers, and dyslexia didn't help, while phone calls were apparently not good for demigods, her dad had said.

They stood there for a while, before she broke away.

"Do you want me to come up there with you?" her mom asked.

"It's fine. You won't be able to go past the boundary, anyway."

"Okay."

There was silence as they both looked up.

"Well, then. Be good. Stay safe."

A kiss on her cheek, a pat on her back.

She looked at her mom. There were beginnings of tears in her eyes, and maybe also...relief?

She didn't bother to dwell on this, instead smiled at her mom, took the suitcase, and began the climb towards her new home.

* * *

"One of his brats, hmm?" Mr D asked, not even looking up from his handheld gaming device. Beeps and other related sound effects could be heard, as he pounded the buttons furiously. "Noooo!" he yelled as 'Game Over' flashed across the screen. Scowling, he chucked the console over his shoulder.

It struck a camper who'd just happened to walk past.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right for not looking where you were going," Mr D justified, preparing to make a rude hand gestur-

"_Dionysus_," Chiron warned. It had turned out she'd mistaken hooves for legs; Chiron was a centaur. (Yes, the girl was trying to get her head around this as well.) "We have a new camper," he repeated.

"Oh, yeah, whatever. Welcome, have fun, stay out of my way, and try not to get killed."

* * *

"Don't mind Mr D., he's just a bit irritable at times," Chiron told the girl as they walked along a path, the suitcase being dragged by the girl.

"Um, you said 'Dionysus' then. I thought that was a name of a Greek god..."

"Yes, he is. Zeus sent him here for bad behavior." He looked at her face and chuckled lightly. "You're still trying to get your head around this whole demigod thing, aren't you."

"Well, yes. I mean, I know it's real, it has to be, because it explains a lot, but..." She was rambling, not a natural habit, but the centaur (a centaur!) somehow made her feel more comfortable with talking. Maybe it was because he was a teacher that actually listened and sounded like they cared.

That didn't happen a lot.

* * *

They stopped in front of a blood-red cabin, lined with barbed wire.

"This is your cabin," the centaur explained, though he didn't need to.

As soon as she had caught sight of it, she had felt a strange tugging in her stomach. It felt...right, just like the fighting had. Automatically, she took a step forward.

"Excited?"

She didn't know for sure. There was a feeling of excitement, and aphrenhension. There were people there...people like _her_. What would they think of her? What would they be like?

She didn't know the answers yet, that was the first time she felt as if it was all going to be okay.

First time that she felt that she had somewhere to belong.

* * *

Standing in the corner of the cabin, the previous sense of optimism she'd felt had deflated. As soon as Chiron had left the room, their welcoming manner had vanished, and now a dozen pairs of eyes were trained on her. Looking _very_ cold.

They were all bigger than her, both by size and, she guessed, by age.

"Another one, huh?" one of the guys asked. "Dad's been enjoying himself, I see."

"She's tiny!" another exclaimed. "Zeus, I hope she won't be a burden to us in Capture the Flag games."

"We could always use her as bait."

This got a big laugh.

"I bet she can't even fight," a girl said, walking closer towards the smaller one. Leant in, so the smaller girl couldn't help but meet her eyes. "Can you, _punk_?" Her face twisted into a sneer.

She snapped. She could fight just as well as any these..._idiots_. (Hey, she was young and still needed time to hone her insulting skills.) She drew back her arm, before smashing her fist into the other girl's face.

At least, that was her intention.

Instead, as quick as anything, a huge hand caught her wrist before her fist could reach the intended target.

"Hmm. You're pretty good for a little girl," the big girl said approvingly. "That fist was fast, and would have been accurate. Might have to work a bit on that temper, though. It's in our nature to anger quickly, but being too hotheaded leads to rash decisions."

"Thanks?" she said, thrown. At first they were mean, and now they were...nice? All the others were all smiles again as well.

"Oh, we just wanted to test you out," the big girl said, sensing her confusion. She released her wrist. "You see, our cabin is badmouthed a lot by the other ones. They say we're cruel. That we do nothing but fight. That we have incredibly short tempers. Okay, we are. But we're more than that. Most people don't realize this, but we do care about some things. Like family. We're all family, metaphorically. Uh. Is that right? I was never good at English. The point is, we look out for each other. Because who else would? We come before anything else, and as long as you live here, you are one of us. So, welcome."

A hand extended, and the newest member of the cabin took it, starting her new life.

* * *

_My first few years there were the best years of my life. I excelled in all kinds of fighting, but more importantly, and I know it sounds soppy, I had **friends**. **Family**. People I could **trust**._

_Of course, but I'm a **demigod**, and very few demigods' lives end in anything but tragedy._

_And I **wasn't** an exception._

* * *

Blue eyes.

Staring right at her.

"You know what you two should do? Get together. The heroine and the rescued. That's romantic!"

She smiles and goes along with what _she_ says, because it's _her_.

Only because it's _her_.

_She_ was everything that she wished was.

(Or was it she wished she had?)

* * *

Blue eyes.

Staring at her.

Lifelessly.

Such an idiot. Such a _fucking_ idiot! So _stupid_.

It hurts when she dies.

* * *

_**It still hurts.**_

* * *

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern written all over his face.

"Fine." Short, one word answers were the norm for her now.

"Are you sure. You're...angrier than normal. And you don't talk to me anymore. Ever since s-"

"Don't talk to me about her."

* * *

"Hey, Greek!"

She turns, facing a short boy wearing a purple T-shirt.

Despite the best efforts of Percy Jackson and his lot, the Greek-Roman relationship was still strained, and she felt he wouldn't have much good to say.

And, guess what? He didn't.

"I just heard that, in the last war, there was a traitor-"

She didn't need to hear more.

Hand on sword. Sword in body. Roman on ground. Dead.

Just like that.

Just like that, she started a war.

The wrong kind of war.

* * *

_I didn't mean to._

* * *

Blades clashed. Sounds of screams. Sounds of death.

They'd been fighting since the sun had risen, and had shown no signs of stopping.

A figure in blood-red twisted through the masses of demigods engaged with a fight to the death with each other, Greek against Roman. Their spear was a blur, here for a moment, embedded in a body the next.

This was what it meant to feel _alive_. She'd thought Camp Half-Blood was her home, but she realized, now, that this was her true home: the battlefield. Ducking and slashing, punching and stabbing, she created a path of the dead.

And stopped as she met a pair of blue eyes.

They weren't the same as the ones she missed, but for a moment she could see that face, those eyes, looking at her sadly.

The Roman made a motion to stab her.

And she let them.

A searing pain. Screams of her name.

Darkness.

* * *

_And that's how I got here._

_I died._

_Got judged._

_I didn't deserve Elysium, because of that action, that action that accounted for too much bloodshed. But...I did do some good in my life. I didn't deserve Tartarus either, apparently._

_And so that's how I ended up here, in the Asphodel Meadows, just another spirit with an oh-so-tragic life story. _

_I don't know what happened in the Greek and Roman war, who won, or who lost. Or whether they eventually mended my mistake, and banded together to defeat the giants._

_I don't know. Maybe they failed. Maybe the gods were overthrown._

_Maybe I single-handedly destroyed civilization as we knew it._

_I really do deserve Tartarus-_

_Another strand of memory floats across my mind. It's short. Short and...sweet.._.

* * *

The Second Titan War was won.

The god of war looked at his daughter with approval.

"I'm proud of you, Clarisse."

She smiled so wide that it felt her mouth would break.

* * *

_I want to smile or cry or something, __**anything**__, but I __**don't **__know how to move anymore. I failed him, failed everyone, and now my head hurts and-_

_Everything's __**that **__color._

_I think it's called 'gray'._

_I think._

_Yeah. _

_Pretty sure._

_It's gray all over here. _

_Not a dash of anything else._

_I find myself wanting for another color. A specific one. Can't remember its name, but it's like the sky, or the color I once saw somewhere-_

_**Blue**__. _

_Yes, blue that I could stare at forever._

_Saw it somewhere. Somewhere to do with faces and seeing._

_Can't remember._

* * *

**END**

**(but not really, because it never really does)**


End file.
